Dinner for Three
by Marlowe97
Summary: Pre-season. All Sam wanted, just once, was a family-dinner. Dean's at the movies, Dad is  working and he's got a recipe. He's seven, he's smart and he charred the kitchen, the bird and nearly burnt his brother to a crisp.   Happy Thanksgiving.


**Title:** Dinner for Three  
**Author:**** marlowe78** aka **Marlowe97**  
**Rating:** PG 13 (language)  
**Characters:** Dean (eleven), Sam(seven), John (thirty-six. Wow, he's so young...)  
**Word count:** ~4.700

**Spoilers:** none  
**Warnings:** Language, fire, hurt Dean.

**Summary:** _Dean sagged in his arms and John had a second's terror of 'he's dead, he's dead!' before he realized that his boy was just obeying and the pain was getting the better of him. Sammy was a pathetic mess. His huge, wet eyes were still leaking tears and he sniffed occasionally, trying so hard to keep his misery inside. _

a/n: This was written - ha, once again - for a prompt at **hoodie_time**'s Halloween/Autumn-themed Dean-focused h/c comment-fic meme, over on lj.

I tweaked it a bit, but kept most.

* * *

"I'm so-so-sorry…" Sam sniffed and sobbed and John had a lot of troubles understanding even that basic sentence. Good thing he was a master at deduction and Sammy couldn't actually have meant 'I'm so, so, so hungry' in a situation like this.

"S' not so bad, Sammy", Dean said. Tried to say. Probably.

It sounded more like a badly oiled door squeaking on its hinges in the storm. With a throat-slashed goat behind it, greeting the visitors. The comforting words ended in a cough that wouldn't stop, deep moans of pain interrupting it.

Sam started to wail now.

"I killed you, I nearly killed you, I didn't wanna, I didn't meanto, I burned you up!"

Probably. Maybe something along those lines. To anyone but a parent, it'd sound like 'I lilled yo, I lilled yo, I dn guano, Idn temento. I burned you up!' Yes, that last part was clear to understand, what with the volume and sheer desperation to be understood. Sam had tears leaking down his face and snot running down his nose into his mouth and he sniffed and it sounded like someone drinking the last drops of a coke with a straw.

Yeah, pretty disgusting.

All along, Dean was squirming in John's hold, trying to get away from his dad who tried to examine the burns on his arms and hands and desperately trying to hold him still and upright to keep him able to breathe.

"Sam, stop that caterwauling! Get your act together and take some deep breaths! Dean, stop squirming or it'll hurt like a bitch. I mean it, NOW!"

Both kids stopped at once. Dean sagged in his arms and John had a second's terror of 'he's dead, he's dead!' before he realized that his boy was just obeying and the pain was getting the better of him. Sammy was a pathetic mess. His huge, wet eyes were still leaking tears and he sniffed occasionally, trying so hard to keep his misery inside.

It broke John's heart to see them like this.

"Good. Now, Sam. Go into the… bathroom" the kitchen wasn't where he'd sent anyone in, least of all his kid "and fetch your brother a glass of water. Not too cold. Can you do that? And bring some wet towels, also not too cold." Sam nodded "Good boy"

The second he was alone with his eldest, he took his smoke-smudged face in his hand and turned him so he could look in his eyes. They were both sitting on the bed, Dean in John's lap so he had his kid close but wouldn't have to touch his arms any more than necessary.

"How are ya doin't, bud?"

"Hmmm…" Dean murmured. Shock?

"Dean? Come on, look at me, boy. Come on, buckle up, son."

Dean raised his head and blinked, finally focusing on his father. "D'd?"

"Yes, Dean-o. I'm here."

"S'mmy?"

"He's fine. He's getting something for your burns, you hear him in the bath?"

Dean nodded.

"Good. Now, kiddo. Let's get you on the bed, need to check you out."

Dean started to squirm, to cling a little harder to his father. "D'n wanna, 'm fine"

"Yeah, sure you are. Just let me look, though, ok?"

Obediently, Dean let himself be raised and sat on the mattress. He whimpered a bit when John took one of his hands in his, a sound that made tears burn hot in John's skull. His son shouldn't sound like that, dammit!

"It's ok, buddy. See, here's Sam. Sammy, gimme the towel and hold the glass for your brother. No, wait – get the straw from the coke over there, ok? Super, Sammy. That's awesome of 'ya."

Dean swallowed painfully, but John felt the relief through his limbs. He draped the towels over his boy's arms and hands, lifting the sleeve of the t-shirt from his upper arm to see if there was more damage or if there was cloth melted into his kid's skin. Looked ok. Thank God!

"All right, boys. Sammy, go get some shirts and your jumper, put on some shoes. Take Dean's as well and go to the car. I'll bring your brother outside. We're taking a little trip to the ER, ok?"

Sammy's eyes filled again and he couldn't help the gut-wrenching sob getting out. It sounded painful, and John felt for the kid, he really did. But there wasn't time for this – burns were not anything to be messed with.

"Ok, kiddo. Let's get you up." He didn't wait for Dean to try to walk or to even mutter a protest, he picked his eleven-year-old up and cradled him close, carried him out the door. Dean didn't weight much, which was good but it also meant less skin to spare and less energy to fight shock. He needed to keep him warm.

"Sammy, get the keys from my jacket, ok?" John turned so his youngest, who had dumped the clothes on the hood, could reach inside his pocket and get the car-keys out. Without prompting, Sam opened the doors of the Impala. Still sobbing a bit, he climbed inside with the boots and shirts and whatnot and buckled up while John bent down to put Dean on the passenger seat. Normally, he'd sit Dean on the back with Sammy, but he wanted him close to prevent him going into shock.

"Okay, buddy. Turn around and put your feet up on my legs" he instructed. Dean did so, leaning against the door with his upper body. Sam, without being asked, slid a shirt and his own sweater between the cold glass and his brother's thin clothes.

"Okay, let's go."

It didn't take long to get to the hospital. Because a child with burns was a high priority, they didn't need to wait until they were ushered into the examination-room, all three Winchesters and the bundle of clothes Sammy kept bringing along. John should've probably told him to leave them in the car but he'd honestly had enough on his plate already, with not freaking out and yelling for help and holding his older son.

"I'll take it from here, Sir" the nurse offered, and even though John was reluctant to let his boy go, she probably had more experience than he did and so he took a step back and let her do her job. She tut-tutted a bit, cooed over Dean and carefully, very carefully removed the towels.

"Oh, honey. These look painful. Let's get some new cold bandages on, huh?" The nurse was older than John, maybe fifty, fifty-five. She had a calming aura and a gentle touch and she instinctively knew how to treat Dean. She put an oxygen-mask over his nose and though his kid kept seeking John whenever he was out of direct sight for longer than a few seconds, he lay pliant and calm while she fixed an IV-port to his hand and connected him to an infusion of clear fluids. Or maybe it was that all the stress was finally getting to him and he just couldn't do anything else. Dean coughed occasionally.

A sniff from behind him sharply reminded John that there was another kid with them. He looked over to the bundle of misery and fear and held out his arms in a rare offer of comfort. Sammy rushed into them, sobbing some more but evidently trying hard to keep it together. John just held him close.

"Mr. Williams? Hi, I'm Dr Hagerty. What happened?" A woman, younger than the nurse, about John's own age, stepped into the room. She had a clipboard with her and John couldn't remember having filled out anything when they arrived, but it seemed he had at least given his name.

Well, _a_ name. One that thankfully matched his medical-insurance-card.

"He uh, he … I think something caught fire and he tried to put it out. I'm not so sure, I just got home and saw the smoke…" he had to pull in some air, the image of the smoke billowing out of his rental-cabin, knowing his boys were still in there, was too much for a second. "Uh… I… I just saw him on the floor, clutching his arms. Got him up, Sammy here put some wet towels on him. Took him here."

"Ok. That's good. If you cooled the burns down within ten minutes, it helps a lot. Now, let's take a look atcha, shall we?"

The last sentence was directed at Dean, who nodded his head but didn't do much else. Except wheeze.

"Sammy, are you?" the nurse bend down to look underneath the shaggy mop of hair. "How about we two go on a hunt for some sweets, while the doc fixes your brother, huh?"

John was grateful that she wanted to distract his boy, tried to reassure him that it wasn't that bad, no big deal. But before he could say anything, just as he anticipated it had the opposite effect. Sam stared at her and with a shriek slipped away from his father, around the rotund nurse and the doctor and clutched Dean's leg.

"NO! He's no dying, please, don't die, Dean, nonononono, don't die, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorrysorrysorry…"

"Sammy…" Dean tried to move, get to his little brother and when the doctor held him down to prevent him hurting himself, he yelled "Sam!" which set of a bout of coughing and wheezing that chilled John to his bones.

"Deeeean!"

"Good, Lord! Boys, it's…Sir…!"

John was already on it. He snatched his wailing youngest around the waist, held him tight and brought him around the stretcher so both his boys could see each other.

"Sam, stop it! Nobody is dying, ok? Look. Sam, LOOK!"

Sam sobbed and hiccuped and coughed, Dean sobbed and coughed, the doctor scowled and the nurse stood shell-shocked, still holding out her hand to take Sam out of the room. John felt something tickle in his head, right behind the eyeballs. What a disaster.

"All right. Everybody calm back down, ok? Dean?" Hagarty caught Dean's eyes "Your brother is fine and right there. Your dad is here as well. The only one injured is you. So, I'll set this mask on your face and you'll keep it there, hear me? And then I have to take care of your hands and arms now, because I know they hurt like a sonofabitch. Look?" She shoved up the sleeve of her lab-coat, exposing extensive scar-tissue from her wrist to the crook of her elbow, probably higher. Dean's eyes widened almost comically at the sight. "See that? That was from when my cousin Malcolm had the brilliant idea to light a fire in out yard. So believe me when I say I know exactly how much they hurt. He used gas to make the bonfire bigger and 'cooler'. "

John actually heard the quotation-marks. He, as well as his boys, was riveted by the story and in a distant way he noticed that she used the calm to inject something into the IV that had thankfully stayed where it belonged throughout Dean's freak-out.

"So, he dumped the whole can on the wood and threw a match in. I'll tell ya, whatever happened today to you and Sam and your dad, it was nothing to what happened in our yard. You think this looks bad? My cousin was way worse." The two kids hung on her lips. After she described the fireball and the color of it and the heat, Dean's eyelids sagged and his high-strung posture relaxed so far that John was only now able to fully grasp how hard Dean'd fought to not scream and howl in pain.

He was deeply grateful for that, even though he was sure it would've been easier to deal for his boy if he'd let out some of the tension. But for his other kid and his own sake, a screaming brother and son would've been a nightmare and there wouldn't have been this calm, orderly travel to the hospital but chaos and mayhem.

The doc looked at John now and smiled kindly. "I gave him a pain-reliever and something to calm him down a bit. Boy was strung like a bow. You've got a brave, brave boy there, Mr. Williams."

"Yeah, I know", John rasped. Sam beamed at the praise.

"Is Dean allergic against anything? No? Good. Now, how about you two sit outside and fill out this form – Loreen, the ... ah, thank you - this form and talk some. I'll check the burns a bit more thoroughly and bandage them. But from what I saw, they aren't as bad as they could've been." She must've noticed Sam's distrustful look at his brother and at her, because her next sentence was directed at the boy. "I'll call you back in the moment he stirs, I promise, Sammy, ok? I also promise you that he won't die. We'll take awesome care of him."

Sam looked at her then, took a full minute to take in her face. Then he nodded, swiped his palm over his snotty face and grabbed his dad by the hand.

Yak.

"So, Sammy. How 'bout you tell me what happened, huh?" John'd filled out all he could answer in the form. Some lies, some truths and some question-marks, like if there were mental-health-issues in the patient's mother's line of heritage.

Sam sniffed and looked at the linoleum underneath his dangling feet. He looked still so much like a baby, still so much like he'd done at five. But he was seven already, smart and capable of a lot more than just eating and watching TV. Things like reading, or asking questions nobody wanted to answer. And apparently burning down a kitchen.

"Sam?" He used his no-bullshit-voice, even though he felt a bit guilty for the flinch it caused.

"I … I'm sorry."

"I know you are. You already said so. Now come on, what happened? You can't want me to believe you wanted to light a fire because it was cool?"

Sam's eyes were huge and terrified at that. "NO! Dad, no, I wouldn't do that!"

John sighed.

"All right. What then?"

"shsbensprse" the boy mumbled.

"Speak up, Samuel."

"It should've been a surprise!" the kid repeated, more clearly this time. But he kept his head down and dammit, John really needed to cut the kids hair. He couldn't see what the boy was doing underneath all of it.

"Well. I can tell ya, it was."

Did he glimpse a hint of a smile there?

"Sam, come on. Spill. Don't make me get loud here."

Sam heaved a sigh that was so full of weight, it could've put an eighty-year-old WW2-veteran to shame. One with seven kids and sixteen grandchildren, all coming along to visit for Thanksgiving.

Oh… Thanksgiving.

"I wanted to cook" Sam murmured. "I wanted to cook us a turkey. I… I bought one. Only a little one…" he thought a second. "Maybe it was a chicken?" Sam looked up at John now, his huge eyes still full of misery and sorrow for the ruined surprise, now even more sorrowful for the turkey that probably wasn't even one.

"Oh, Sam…"

"I'm sorry, Dad. I swear, I checked the recipe! I checked and there was the time, depending on the size of the bird. I – I put in some fi-filling…" his eyes spilled over and John's heart ached for his little one. "an-and I… there were some mashed pot'toes from a box. And… and I bo-bought some o-other stuff" he sniffed again "and so-s-some gravy. From powder, but s-still. I-I wanted us to have a gr-great dinner, Dad. All 'f us. I… I'm so, so, so sorry!"

"Oh, Sammy!" John pulled his kid into his arms, let him sob a bit in his shirt. Didn't matter anymore anyway. He caressed his son's head and rocked him slightly, trying to console him in his misery of trying so hard and failing so bad. He kinda knew that feeling intimately.

"I nearly killed Dean!" Sam choked out. "I swear, I wasn't away f'r long. Only... I needed to pee, 's all! And th-then I got back and –" Sam looked up, full of remembered terror. "A-and somethin' 'd caught fire on the stove. Dunno what, I swear! All's full of smoke and o-or-orange fire. I-I-I – oh god, I was so stupid, I know I am, I know it's wrong I swear I know, I didn't 'member though, I didn't I couldn't, the smoke an' all the, the fire, the… I.."

"Sam, breathe boy." John took Sammy at his shoulders and shook him, trying to calm him down. Probably not the approved method, but there were no paper-bags close and anyway, it worked. "Come on, deep breaths. That's it, buddy. That's it. In - out. In - out. Good. That's great."

They sat a bit, silently side by side, watching the people wander by. After a deep, shuddering breath, Sam went on.

"I think it was … I know it was an oil-fire. I…" Sam bowed his head in shame, because only a few weeks ago he'd come home from school, talking a mile-a-minute about the fire-inspector who'd been at the class and told them all about the dangers of fire. "I forgot. I… I got some water from the sink and… I dunno. Happened all so fast. I heard… I heard Dean come home…" he looked at John in earnest wonder "- he wasn't s'posed to be home, Dad! Not then. Was 'sposed to be at the movies still!"

Right. The movies. Dean had asked to go to see a movie with some guys from school. John'd agreed but yesterday he'd told his son to go to the earlier showing or not at all so he'd be home at four to watch his brother until John came home. They hadn't told Sam – there had been no need, right?

Sam's teacher had called and informed John that his drama-class was canceled – since there was the holiday, of course. John hadn't even realized that Sam was in the drama-class, let alone that it was Thanksgiving already. He'd been maudlin and mourning his wife as usual during November. At least he hadn't been hunting. John couldn't even begin to imagine what'd happened if he'd been gone for longer than a working-day. He was unspeakably glad for his job in Ned's Garage

"What then?" John prodded Sam.

"Don't… I… I had the glass in hand and I… I threw the water… and Dean was there and he grabbed me _right that second_ an' we fell down and there was this… this huge whoosh" Sam gestured with his arms, but even without that help John could imagine the fireball that had to have developed.

Sam swallowed two times, coughed a bit. His father noticed absently and made a mental note to let him be checked for smoke inhalation as well.

"The curtain burnt. He… and De-Dean…" Sam took a shuddering breath "Dean p-put somethin' – his shirt I think – on it and it… it caught fire too. He…" Sam stopped for a second, clearly remembering the horrible events "… he grabbed a towel, tol' me to get the exingisher and started beatin' the fire out. An-and I went to the... looked for the exingusher and th-then he s-s-s-s-screamed. So loud, and … and I … I … I le-left him on the f-floor and I p-p-put the fire out first – Dad, I'm so sorry, I shoulda looked at Dean first but… but…"

Sam started crying again, big, fat blobby tears fell from his eyes onto his shirt and jeans and the seat of the chair he sat on.

"Sam, Sammy, listen. Sam, can you listen? Look at me? Sam?" Sammy was staring into the distance, recalling the fire and the smoke and his brother on the floor no doubt. But he needed his boy sharp.

Needed him there.

"Eyes front, Marine!"

Sam's head snapped up. "Yes, Sir!" he replied and John was in equal measures relieved and ashamed for the training he'd already started with his youngest.

Dean'd be a Sergeant already, he'd been in the Winchester-Corps long enough to get his stripes.

"Sam, that was exactly the right thing you did. That was very, very smart of ya." He had to smile a little bit at the doubtful frown on his boy's face.

"Uh-huh" he clearly didn't believe his father.

"If you hadn't, there might not be any of my boys left now. You both might be dead right now, and I swear, Sam, you, me and Dean, we all're mighty happy that that's not the case. It might sound harsh, but sometimes it's much, much more important to take out the threat before taking care of your buddy. Even if he is your brother. Got me, sport?"

Sam nodded and maybe he believed him now. Didn't matter, because John knew his boy. Sam would think and think and think some more 'bout that and then come to the exact same conclusion. Kid was smart as a whip.

"I wanted to surprise you all…" his son sniffed again.

"Aww, Sammy."

"No. I…I ne-nearly burnt him. I ne-nearly burnt him up." And whispering, he added "Like Mom."

It hit John again, then. Ice-cold-burning-hot, like when he'd spotted the smoke.

He could've lost his boys. He could've lost his entire family, his soul, in nearly the same way he'd lost his heart already.

Sam didn't know about any supernatural evil thing killing his mother. For him, it was a fire. A simple, deadly fire. Sammy hadn't learned about the cleansing abilities fire held, for Sam, every fire was the same. Every fire was the thing that took his mother from him before he even knew her.

Dean was begging John to keep it that way and even though he knew it put more pressure on Dean and himself, he had to agree. Wasn't Sam's fault evil was out there. The boy had it tough as it was – why add to that?

Why risk him knowing about it before it was necessary, unavoidable. Wouldn't help one bit, wouldn't change a thing.

Dean was sleeping in the bed furthest from the door. He was still out from the pain-medication, his arms wrapped up tightly to his elbows – luckily no further.

"Your son is exceptionally lucky, Mr. Williams" Dr. Hagerty had said. "Some second-degree-burns on the inside of his arms, which will hurt quite a lot, I'm afraid."

John had paled. He'd remembered vividly his compatriots, over in 'Nam, who'd screamed their throats bloody from the pain of burn-wounds. Who'd only been silent with heavy drugging – morphine, and only that. Second-degree sounded mild, but it was the painful kind of burn. Third-degree was… horrible and scarred you irrevocably, but at least your nerve-endings burnt with it and you didn't feel it.

The Doc must've spotted his pallor because she'd hurried to reassure. "I say second-degree because that's what it is. But barely so. Just the edge from bad first-degree to second, and as I said, some crossed that edge. But when I say 'some', I mean only some. They aren't bigger 'n a nickel, maybe a quarter. I won't kid you, they'll scar, but it could've been way worse."

Sam had listened attentively, even though he'd sat on the stretcher with Dean, clutching his brother's shirt because he couldn't touch his bandaged hands. "Are those you have second-degree?"

Hagarty smiled and turned her attention to the boy. "Yes. But my whole arm was covered in second-degree-burns. Your brother only has some places where the heat was bigger and the skin more sensitive. Like in the inside of his arms." Sam touched his own arms, ran his finger along the inside and nodded, as if him checking was the only measure of truth he could get for this statement. Maybe it was.

"So, as I said. Only a few deeper burns. Most are first-degree-burns as well, some a bit more severe than the rest. Those will heal without scarring, but they will hurt too. The nerves under the skin have been aggravated a lot and he'll feel it. So, Mr. Williams. I'll give you a prescription", she handed him the piece of paper "and you can get it from the pharmacy right across the street. Don't be fooled if he tries to be tough about it – he'll need this stuff for quite some time. In fact –" she'd taken a pen and her prescription-block and'd started to squiggle something "- I'll give you another one. Just in case. They are heavy-duty. So watch out for your little one" John caught the scowl from Sam at that and grinned a bit "so he won't take any. It's morphine-based."

"What… what about addiction?"

"Ah. Well. There shouldn't be a problem with that, he will take these for some time but it should be all right to get him off again. Especially when you just be honest with him and tell him. The amount I prescribed should be enough for the burns to heal properly, so if he still needs more – says he does – go to a doctor and let him check. Do not give him more than these without consulting someone first."

John'd nodded. Oh, he'd tell Dean all right, just not right away. He knew his boy, and Dean wouldn't take any if he thought he might get addicted. Addiction was a weakness, and yes, John had encouraged that belief. He should've amended it by now. He'd get to it soon as he could.

"Wait!" Sam had said just as John gathered the limp thing that was Dean in his arms. "Wait. Doc… Ma'm. What…what happened to your cousin?"

Of course Sam needed to know. For Sammy, 'need to know' covered absolutely everything.

"Oh, honey. He got burnt up a lot, but he survived. Because of that day, I became a doctor. I wanted to help people when they are that hurt, like we were."

"And Malcolm?"

"Mal? He's a bit different. He's a firefighter now."

"Wow…" Sam's reverence was heartfelt, and John remembered that Dean had wanted to become a firefighter as well for a long time. He didn't now. His hero-worship had switched from the guys who put out flames to his dad who burned bones and killed things, from fire-man to hunter. John should feel flattered, but… not so much.

They had been able to take Dean right home with them. The kid was so still and pliant and John hated to carry an unconscious child – any child, really, but doing it for his own boys was a sharp knife in his guts.

The kitchen was a black mess, the whole cabin reeked of sharp smoke and burnt rubber and plastic. He'd left Dean with Sam in the car and collected their stuff and then had gone to a motel for the night.

They probably should've skipped town, what with the ruined cabin. But he was just too tired, and Dean should have some rest.

They all should.

Sam fell asleep on the bed closer to the door right away. He'd wanted to sleep with Dean but had accepted at once that it might hurt his brother when he moved in his sleep, so without fuss, he'd changed, brushed his teeth and went to sleep.

John, who'd be sharing a bed with his youngest, had a harder time getting rest. He was tuned into every move Dean made, every whimper that came from his tough boy.  
God, he'd nearly lost them both. His firefighting, brother-saving, teeth-clenching and pain-battling first son and the sweet, innocent, question-wielding, sharp-thinking, loving little one.

His soul, his reason to keep going.

Through a fucking stupid fire, through a simple, horrible accident. Life could be so different if that was all that was out there, and yet life could end just as fast without knowing it, without ever encountering anything but bad chance.

There was no certainty in life. What was the saying? Nothing's sure but death and taxes. Well. John'd found a way around one of them. He'd find a way to keep the other one at bay as long as possible, for him and his boys.

Especially for his boys.

Instead of rousing Sam, who'd inhaled some smoke and was coughing now and again every time he got up to check if Dean needed anything, he fell into an uneasy, uncomfortable slumber in one of the ratty armchairs the motel provided.

He dreamed of fire that night.

~end~


End file.
